Harry's Hands 2
by Herione Catz
Summary: (This is a sequel) Harry Potter is back for sixth year at Hogwarts, having to struggle with the losses, challenges, and dangers that await him.


*NOTE: THIS IS A **SEQUEL**. If you have not read 'Harry's Hands' then most of this will make little sense to you, so I suggest you read that _FIRST_ and then this.

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing, mentions of abuse, mentions of death, etc (basically the same warnings for the whole story, and it probably won't deviate from T)

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

_The curse barreled towards her with the speed of a bullet, streaking dead set through the atmosphere, unstoppable._

_Colliding- _

_Brief stillness._

_And then her limbs drooped like a puppeteer had let go of the strings._

_Falling._

_He crawled to her._

_Her eyes were pointed straight at him like two glassy orbs beaming up from an untouched porcelain doll; unseeing and unknowing and dull from being shoved in a dark shelf for too long. _

_Her pupils two pinpricks surrounded by a murky puddle._

_"Okay, okay," he whispered into a deaf ear, "Okay?"_

_His hands and knees were dug into the rugged earth and rubble; watching her, seeing, waiting._

_Looking._

_Voldemort._

_Voldemort did this._

_Harry's eyes were so blurred with sadness that he almost couldn't see the green eclipse the shallow blue irises._

_Rubbing at his raw face, the boy followed the soft trail of green light._

_It was a green that cast directly off of Voldemort's wand, hazed and horrible..._

_Yet there was a figure behind him._

_Shadowed and barely visible, but there. Certainly there._

_A figure steadying the Dark Lord's grip, steadying his aim._

_A bearded old man._

_Words rang in his head, eerily familiar:_

_"Don't trust Dumbledore."_

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound of blood swelling in his ears.

Harry awoke with a gasp, wringing himself against sheets and pillows soggy with sweat.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. His heart knocked against his chest hard and made his ribs ache.

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm here, Hogwarts- home," His voice tottered, he wiped viciously at his brow, "No battle. Battle is over."

It was nights like these that were the worst. Summer nights that were so weepy and humid that even the sun broke out into a sweat. Sweaty nights, nights that were practically a breeding ground for nightmares. Nights that he was so alone and so hot and where the wind was so quiet that he couldn't help but think about_ her_.

Luna.

That name always made his gut contort and his head ache even after all these weeks and even after all that had happened.

Luna; he talked to her sometimes and it was always on these nights. The nights that wouldn't leave him alone.

Harry teetered off the edge of bed, padding over on plushy carpet to an illusory window charmed onto the dungeon wall. He crawled into the niche, bringing his chin to rest on his knees, and surveyed the rolling pastures silhouetted in a black canvas.

He stayed silent for a long time, unsure of how to start and unsure if he should be saying anything at all.

"Hi," He shifted against the stone and brought the cool glass up to his forehead, "I haven't said anything to you in a while."

Crickets.

"The gardens were looking lovely this morning, I suspect that was you."

Nothing more needed to be said, he supposed, but the roof of his mouth ached with what he didn't speak.

His breath caked the glass in a gray, vaporous fog, and he sat there for so long that little droplets started to collect on the pane.

He needed to think, he hadn't thought in a while, and maybe it was time.

"After the battle, when you," his throat hung onto the words, trying to drag them into the depths of his stomach and let them sit there forever, "When you died, it was like..."

_Like, like, like, like_ what? He wondered how many different ways he could end that sentence; like it was a dream. Like it wasn't truly happening. Like it was a terrible, terrible movie but at least when you leave the theater you're comforted by knowing that it isn't real.

There were perhaps an endless amount of combinations he could use, but he knew equally well that it was only in his head that he knew what he was talking about, that words spoken aloud could never have the same resonance as the words in his head. And in his head, he could have endless words. He could end that sentence endlessly and infinitely so much so that it both had an end and didn't have an end because it was in his head and it wasn't so real and it was forever more eloquent than anything he could ever say.

Maybe that's why he didn't write a eulogy, because some things are better left unsaid. And anything he ever had to say about her would taint her memory.

And maybe it was a little pathetic that he was still hung up about it, that he still thought about it so much, that he couldn't just get over it. Get over her. But he couldn't forget it, he couldn't forget the quickly dissipating warmth of her neck as the rush of blood came to a standstill, he couldn't forget those eyes, he couldn't forget being dragged away by strong arms he didn't even recognize...

_"Potter, we need to leave," the man had said, his voice having a faint and yet recognizable tremble._

_The man had dug him into his robes, "Okay."_

_He was dizzy and weak and felt less substantial than a wisp of smoke, but the smell of cinnamon and birch trees and the swirl of potions in the air reassured him that he was still there._

_For awhile, huddled into the professor's robes, that was all he had known, until he had heard it. He had heard it as the ground trembled beneath him from footsteps, "Potter, it is not your fault, do you hear me? It is not your fault," his voice was strong again, "It is not your fault."_

_And, try as he might, with the roar of hysterical sobs and equally hysterical laughter, he couldn't get the words out of his head. He couldn't get it out of his head even at the sound of clicking cameras, and eager questioning and the faint pulse of his dimly glowing hands dug into the man's side._

_"Mr. Potter, what is that has happened-"_

_It's not your fault._

_"Harry, Harry dear, look towards the camera! You're a star, a hero! Now tell me..."_

_It's not your fault._

_"What was Voldemort like, what did he look like?"_

_It's not your fault._

_"Is it true that Centaurs were-"_

_It's not your fault._

_"Mr. Potter, shop owners and costumers alike have reported seeing glowing-"_

And then after that all he had known was the scratchy hospital wing sheets and pillow cases and soppy pink potions, all which he had scarcely recalled in the morning.

He was certainly glad it was summer now and while that left him more thinking time than he'd ever care to have, it also gave him an entirely welcome reprieve from the stares, whispers, the eager hand shakes, thank yous, and sickening proclamations of awe.

And the apologies.

_"Harry, I..." The girl fiddled with the creases on her robes, unable to meet his eyes, "I can't say how sorry I am."_

The questions.

_"Everyone's been talking about, about what happened in Hogsmeade, and they're wondering what people saw on... on your arms..." Neville faltered, "I mean, you don't have to say anything, but I want you to know that I'm here if you want to talk. Are they just rumors, or, or, what?"_

He was happy it was over and he could only hope that sixth year would be better. That everyone would forget, that the Daily Prophet and his friends would just stop asking about his hands, his hands, his hands, the battle, and his hands.

And maybe if they could forget, he could forget too.

Harry startled when he heard a creak, his forehead lifting from the glass and a sharp breath of air fogging it up again.

Snape frowned at him with a dour, tired expression, and examined the boy's tired, sweaty face, "You told me you weren't having them anymore."

The boy frowned,"I'm just not tired, I told you that I'm over it, I swear."

"You most certainly are not."

"I was thinking."

Snape let out a long, drawn out sigh, and summoned a phial, handing it to him, "Drink this, we'll speak in the morning."

Harry crawled back to the bed and downed it as the man stopped in the doorway, giving him an appraising look, "You should've known that silencing charms over the bed wouldn't fool me for very long."

He shut the door behind him.

This was the one downside to staying in Snape's quarters; at least, in the Gryffindor tower, he could have nightmares in relative peace.

Ending on that thought, the boy fell into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
